Every day a clot of drivers
moving at high speed takes on the Gallatin Canyon between Bozeman
and Big Sky, Mont. It is the second-busiest commuting corridor in
the state, and the most dangerous. Between 5,500 and 7,500 drivers
navigate the perilous gantlet of highway 191 on a daily basis, on
their way to work at construction sites, to Yellowstone National
Park, to the ski resort or back and forth to school. For these
thousands of drivers and their passengers, it may be the most
dangerous thing they ever do, and yet they take it on routinely
enough that it becomes mundane.
For all of us, unless we
live in an active war zone, driving is statistically chancier than
anything else in our lives. We may fixate on terrorists and nasty
encounters with bears or mountain lions, but for true fear and
loathing, nothing trumps time behind the wheel. And in my
neighborhood, no roadway trumps 191 through the Gallatin Canyon.
Driving conditions there are a mortal confluence of bad
weather, a narrow, winding roadway, antsy motorists, concentrations
of wandering wildlife and semi-trailer truck traffic. Locals aptly
refer to it as the Luge Run. Since 1996 there have been 21 deaths
and 374 injuries along this one stretch of road, and counting.
White crosses bloom on every curve. In a recent, and typical,
three-year period there were 367 reported collisions between
vehicles and wildlife. Who knows how many more went unreported?
Temperatures in the canyon can vacillate 50 degrees
between night and day, so that deadly ice patches linger on shaded
curves. Ninety inches of snow fall over a normal winter, with
winter extending into June. Whiteout blizzards, glare ice and fog
are standard fare. Elk, moose, deer, bighorn sheep, mountain lion,
coyote, bear, and the occasional wolf cross the highway.
The pavement closely parallels the curves of the river. Guardrails
are sporadic. When motorists lose control, it’s about a 50-50
proposition whether they’ll end up in the icy, rapid-filled
drink. Just to complicate matters, truckers succumb to the
temptation of this highway shortcut, so that on an average day,
several hundred semis traverse the canyon, hurtling along with
their gargantuan inertia, and far too often becoming involved in
horrific accidents. Add to this the construction boom in Big Sky,
and you get a daily rush hour of pickup trucks, skiers, truckers
and miscellaneous travelers, most of them in a hurry, but some
meandering along and sightseeing. Drivers pass on blind curves,
tailgate and generally proceed as if this old stage road were an
interstate.
Highway 191 is a regular topic of legislative
conversation, with “Something must be done” a constant
refrain. Fact is, however, that given the circumstances, only so
much can be done. You can mess with speed limits, add pullouts and
encourage enforcement, but as long as people in these numbers, and
under these circumstances, travel regularly up and down the canyon,
it will remain a form of highway roulette. As everyone knows, if
you play roulette long enough, you’re certain to lose.
I’d like to think that my neighborhood highway
nightmare is an anomaly, a Montana-based vortex of tragedy. Not so.
Every state in the West has its version of the same syndrome.
Different circumstances, same result. Consider these notably-gnarly
highway commutes from around the region:
*Highway 22
between Driggs, Idaho and Jackson Hole, Wyo., over 8,429-foot Teton
Pass, regularly driven by service-sector workers who can’t
afford Jackson’s real estate prices. Overnight survival gear
is standard equipment. Avalanches are frequent.
*California’s highway 17 between Santa Cruz and Silicon
Valley. The mountainous stretch is only 20 miles long, but the
“rush” can last three hours. Locals refer to it as
Valley Surprise in honor of all the motorists who end up in the
median.
*Colorado’s high-elevation commute on
highway 550 between Durango and Silverton. In 47 miles you cross
both Molas (10,910 feet) and Coal Bank (10,640 feet) passes. Nice
views, but at what price?
*For high-volume intensity,
there’s Oregon’s “Terwilliger Curves,” a
portion of I-5 south of Portland featuring jostling triple-trailer
trucks, poorly banked curves and frequent deluges of rain that kick
surf up over windshields.
*Finally, though I could list
even more Western commutes you’d rather avoid, there’s
one from the Far North — the section of Seward Highway between
Anchorage and Girdwood, renowned for avalanche intensity. Storms
have been known to let loose as many as a dozen slides along a
40-mile stretch. This sometimes closes the road for a week, and the
only way out for trapped motorists? A helicoper.
Alan Kesselheim is a contributor to Writers on the Range,
a service of High Country News in Paonia, Colorado (hcn.org). He is
a writer in Bozeman, Montana.
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